Kassandra AC Odyssey: Hero Worship (part 1)

(If you were hoping for the next bit of Korra this week, I apologize; I'm laid up sick with Covid apparently, so been struggling with writing. I'm still working on Korra, but to give ya'll something for this week I'm giving you the first part of a story with Kassandra from Assassins Creed Odyssey. I hope you enjoy!)

With angry voices and heavy footfalls ringing out behind her, Phoibe scampered through the nearest doorway, not daring to look over her shoulder. Heart pounding, breathing quick and panicked, the small girl from Kephallonia only slowed to look for the nearest hiding place in this new room.

“Where did she go?! The little brat is fast!”

“Through there! She went there!”

The room was large for its kind and in the dark of night everything was masked in shadow. It would have been an easy mistake to run to the nearest shadow and cower, but one man with a torch would have seen her immediately. Phoibe took to hiding like a mouse; she ran to the corner and threw off the lid of a wicker basket before climbing in. Fortunately, there was only soft cloth at the bottom, so she crouched down, pulled the lid back on and went completely still.

She’d only been in her hiding place for a couple of seconds before several burly men burst into the room and scraped to a stop. Peering between a gap in the threaded wicker, Phoibe watched them, holding her breath.

The men’s torches lit up the room along with their craggy, pugnacious faces, set in perpetual, stupid scowls. They were large and wore little armor, slabs of heavy muscle showing beneath the leather straps they used to carry their weapons. They had big hands and arms, but carried cudgels and staffs, aside from the occasional dagger. Street toughs, bullies, not warriors.

“Is she here?” one of them with a crooked nose asked, “I don’t see her!”

“I told you, I saw her!” said another with a shining bald pate, “I saw her little skirts bouncing when she ran in here! Zeus blind me if I’m lying!”

“Zeus may blind you someday, Adrastos, but not for this. The little fox is in this room.”

The last voice came from someone Phoibe couldn’t see, soft and mellifluous, tinged with a wry, caustic edge.

The brutes stepped aside, making way for a wiry man with a light step and sharp eyes. He wore an expensive silk cloak and had thick, curly brown hair like a sponge. His gait was almost mincing and he clasped his hands in front of himself, wearing a polite smile, but despite his humble posturing there was a hungry gleam behind his eyes. Most notably, he wore a bronze circlet with two spikes that protruded from his hair like the horns of a faun.

Phoibe held her breath when she saw him. The big, dumb men could be trouble if they grabbed her, but she’d been slipping away from bullies like them her whole life. This other man, known as the Bacchus, was different. He was clever, dangerous, known for his appetites, and his eyes missed nothing. Lascivious as he was cruel and as quick as he was sly, a combination that sent a shiver down Phoibe’s spine.

The Bacchus tilted his head wistfully, as if looking around the room brought back fond memories.

“Spread out and search, my boys,” he crooned, “Find me my script. And the supple little fox that stole it.”

The men immediately obeyed the order, striding to different corners of the room to search. They peered under tables, behind large clay pots, waving their torches around before moving to another place.

As Phoibe watched them, she bit her lip and slowly pushed the stolen script through her belt. It was a list of the nobles that had procured the salacious services of the Bacchus. An excellent piece of blackmail material, it also listed the names of several members of the Kult of Cosmos, something her hero Kassandra desired greatly. Normally Kassandra’s quests involved fighting monsters or piles of soldiers; Phoibe couldn’t help with that. But stealing she could do very well.

Now she just needed to get away, get Kassandra the script, and show her hero how useful she could be.

While the men continued to search, Phoibe looked around the room for a possible escape. The room was large and filled with many pots, baskets and small chests. That was good, as it meant it would take longer for the men to find her, but the only windows were tiny slits in the floor to allow air circulation; there was no way in or out but the room’s single door.

The room also had a strange decorative theme. The men’s torches illuminated murals on the walls, all of naked women writhing in distress, most often chained and sometimes being whipped. Chains and manacles were mounted on the walls and ceilings, and the room stored strange devices that looked like they were designed for either heavy construction or torture. One wall covered with rows of clay molds in bizarre, rounded shapes. Like pairs of melons with the stems still on or…

Phoibe wrinkled her nose when she realized the molds were all of women’s breasts or bottoms. She didn’t know exactly what this room was for, but she could imagine lots of gross things the Bacchus would probably like. The thought made her want out of this room even faster.

“Come out, little fox,” the Bacchus sang as his men continued to search, “We won’t… permanently harm you. Such a bright-eyed nymphling as yourself always has a place in my household. But I do want my script back. And if we have to find you, I will be very, very cross.”

The men continued their search, one of them moving gradually towards Phoibe’s wicker basket. He lifted the lid of a pot, peered inside, then moved to the next, drawing closer and closer.

Phoibe swallowed and looked to the door. If he came any closer, she would have to make a run for it. The Bacchus was standing in the way, but she would have to hope she could slip away from him and make her escape. The odds were better of that than her fighting free of the brute’s hand when he reached into the basket and grabbed her by the scruff of the neck.

The dark-haired girl carefully positioned herself, coiling her tanned legs beneath her skirts, waiting for the moment when she could explode out and take them by surprise.

Unfortunately, the Bacchus seemed to be reading her mind. He glanced over his shoulder at the door.

“Cletus?” he said to his nearest thug, “Would you be a good giant and close the door, please?”

Phoibe’s heart clenched tight and she barely kept from gasping aloud.

“I have a sudden urge for privacy,” the Bacchus continued with a smile, “And we don’t want to have to chase our squirrel outside, do we?”

Cletus, a dark complected brute with a prematurely graying beard, grunted and turned to obey.

“I got it.” He said, laying his torch against the wall.

Flexing his fingers, the big man plodded past his master and towards the door. He didn’t move particularly quickly, but his mere intent made Phoibe’s mouth go dry.

The doors were thick and closed with a bar of wood and metal that weighed almost as much as she did. Designed to keep anyone unwelcome from breaking in, the door looked so heavy that Phoibe suspected she’d have to throw her weight against it and strain for several seconds to push it open, much less lift the lock bar. There was no way she’d be able to do that before one of the men grabbed her.

Her breathing became rapid and shallow as her eyes darted desperately around the room for an escape route she may have missed, but there was no hole big enough for a cat to squeeze through. The men were continuing to search, including the one drawing ever closer to her basket. Her only hope would be to sprint to the door and squeeze through before Cletus closed it, but the Bacchus had his arms by his sides now, slowly looking around the room with an expectant grin.

Phoibe’s blood went cold. The Bacchus knew he was trapping her, that her only chance of escape was if she moved in the next few seconds. He was curious which nook she’d pop out of, but knew she’d have to run past him to reach the door. His fingers flicked eagerly at his sides, eyes bright and enjoying himself, ready to grab her.

Phoibe froze. If she didn’t move she knew it was only a matter of time before they found her, but she also knew that if she made an attempt, she’d run right into the Bacchus’ slender claws. She could barely stop herself from trembling, her eyes wide as saucers, already trapped.

Cletus placed a heavy hand on the door and began pushing it closed, the ponderous manner in which he did so confirming how heavy it was. In moments it would bang shut.

For a desperate moment, Phoibe considered giving herself up. There was no longer any doubt that she was about to be captured. If she stood up out of the basket, politely asked for mercy, maybe whatever the Bacchus had in store for her wouldn’t be so bad. At least she could bear it until Kassandra came to rescue her.

The sliver of torch light through the door grew smaller. Bacchus’ grin grew as he flexed his fingers in anticipation. The door creaked as it closed the last few inches, a low moan that Phoibe trembled to keep from echoing.

There was a crash and the door flew back open. It slammed into a surprised Cletus, who was knocked flat with a grunt.

The Bacchus spun around like a startled cat, hand snapping under his cloak. The other thugs jumped and turned to gape in stupid surprise.

A muscular, feminine figure stood in the doorway, torchlight gleaming off her golden armor.

“Well,” came a woman’s wry voice, “This is an… interesting room.”

The warrior in the doorway was tall and broad shouldered for a woman, with the sort of graceful tone that came with athleticism, rather than weight. Her armor was a mixture leather and golden bronze, rounded at the chest to fit her healthy bosom and tapered down the stomach with bronze studs before coming to skirts of leather strips. Each was weighed down with decorative metal to provide protection but freedom of movement, revealing much of her thick, Spartan-trained thighs.

Phoibe’s heart positively glowed with renewed hope.

Kassandra, the Eagler Bearer, Spartan warrior and rumored demi-goddess, strode into the room with her arms thoughtfully crossed and a carefree swagger. Her armor hid the curve of her waist, but her hips still swayed beneath her skirts, unconsciously girlish. Copper-brown hair was kept in a single braid, a golden circlet set on her brow just above a strong-jawed, pretty face. She was all but an amazon, her femininity amplifying rather than detracting from her warrior’s aura and striding into the room she looked like a hero from an epic surrounded by drab chattel.

The goons tensed as they saw her, hands slowly moving to their cudgels.

In contrast, the Bacchus relaxed slightly upon seeing her, his polite grin returning. Still, he took a couple of careful steps back, staying well out of the reach of her sword.

“Hmm!” he mused, his hand still beneath his cloak, “And now the mighty Misthios with the broken spear comes to my pleasure andron. Lovely. I will most certainly take you on.”

Kassandra rolled her eyes at the suggestion and Phoibe had to cover her mouth to keep from giggling aloud. These men may have heard of her friend’s reputation, but they obviously didn’t truly know what they faced. No one ever did, until after Kassandra was through with them.

“I’ll pass,” the Spartan put her hands on her hips, “I’m here for two things. One is a list of the nobles hold your little parties for.”

The Bacchus narrowed his eyes at that.

“The second,” Kassandra held up a hand at her mid chest, “Is a girl about this tall. Black hair in a bob, smart mouth, likes to get herself into trouble.”

Phoibe squirmed at that, though not as much as she normally would. Being scolded by Kassandra was infinitely better than being tortured by the Bacchus.

“Give me those things and I’ll leave,” Kassandra shrugged, “No further trouble. I’ll even give you some drachmae, if that will make it easier.”

The Bacchus nodded slowly, considering the offer.

Still gripping their bronze-headed clubs and cudgels, set their torches carefully down and drew closer, approaching Kassandra from all sides. Behind her, Cletus cursed and started to climb to his feet as well, wiping at a bloody nose. Although better armed with a fine sword, war bow, and her famous short-handled spearhead, the men were taller, broader, and heavier and there were five of them. To anyone unfamiliar with the Eagle Bearer, the odds seemed heavily stacked.

Kassandra didn’t even bother taking her eyes off the Bacchus.

“You probably won’t take that deal,” she said, “No one ever does. And yet I keep offering, hoping one day I’ll have a job that doesn’t end with scrubbing blood off my spear.”

The goons shifted nervously, glancing at their master. They were confident together they could beat this one woman, but her reputation and confidence were very unsettling. They’d heard tales of her slaying generals, tilting the tides of battle with her lone sword arm, even defeating monsters of legend.

The Bacchus smiled, offering her a small, respectful nod.

“You are most perceptive.”

The wiry flesh peddler took another few steps back, getting out of the way of his men.

“I won’t feign ignorance,” he continued, drawing something from under his cloak, “But I also won’t be supplying either the list or the girl. No one comes into my house and takes what is mine.”

He gestured his men towards the famous intruder.

“And that includes wild Spartan mares,” the Bacchus looked her up and down, “In need of a good hiding and a good riding.”

The thugs closed in around Kassandra with wicked grins, weapons at the ready.

Phoibe grinned and shivered with excitement, eager to see her hero to give these men what they deserved.

Kassandra drew her weapons with a lazy twirl, sword in one hand and spearhead in the other.

“Fine then,” she drawled, staring through lidded eyes at her opponents, “Maybe someone will take the deal on the next job.”

Unable to handle the suspense any longer, one of the men bellowed and charged at her, winding up with a swing to take the misthios’ head off.

Kassandra punched her boot into his chest and a flash of golden light shot the man backwards like an arrow from a bow string. He narrowly missed Phoibe’s basket and crashed some clay pots against the wall, shattering them with his body.

Phoibe cupped her hands over her mouth to stifle a laugh of delight.

The other thugs hesitated for a split second, startled by the display of power, then charged in all at once with bellows of their own.

The battle was on. The clash of weapons rang out, angry cries filling the room.

Watching from her basket, Phoibe’s eyes gleamed.

Kassandra was simply a goddess among mortals. Rather than being overwhelmed, she moved around the brutes like they were standing still. She darted forward to attack, slashing several times with blows that drove her victim back, then darted away to meet another before he could attack her from behind. If any of them managed to even swing at her, she was no longer there when the blow landed, suddenly behind them or beside them to press the advantage on one of their comrades.

The Bacchus called out instructions to his men, moving quickly around the combatants, often retreating, then moving forward again, like he was trying to find the right perspective on the fight.

“From both sides! No, at the same time! Come where she can’t see you!”

With something small in hand, he continued to circle the battle, occasionally bringing it to his lips only to lower it again in frustration.

“Sons of Des!” he cursed, “There are four of you and she’s just one woman! Just surround her!”

But such was much easier said than done.

Phoibe giggled, no one hearing her over the sounds of the battle. The Bacchus was losing his composure, sounding worried, even frantic. It delighted her; he had good reason to be scared.

Kassandra sent one man sprawling when she ducked under his swing and threw her shoulder into him when he was unbalanced. He got up before she could finish him, but the battle merely continued in the same way, the thugs slowing down as they collected more cuts and bruises.

When one of the men finally managed to swing at her while the heroine stood still, she swatted the blow away with such force that sparks flew and the brute staggered back. Panting, the thugs looked at each other, gaping in shock. Not only was the woman as fast as Hermes, but she had the power of Hercules, capable of meeting them swing for swing and almost jarring the weapons from their hands.

The Bacchus’ goons began to back away, staying tightly together, defensive. They didn’t attack as much and seemed more intent on defending themselves than overwhelming her. It was becoming clear why men said this woman was a demi-goddess and how she had defeated companies of soldiers single-handedly.

“I warned you,” Kassandra said as she advanced on them, “You can’t say I—Mallaka!”

The heroine cursed as something sharp smacked into the back of her leg. She slapped at it like a bug bite, then plucked out a tiny, feathered dart.

The Bacchus lowered the small blow gun from his lips.

“Finally…” he hissed.

Kassandra stared at the dart, then threw it to the ground. She had so far ignored the wiry criminal altogether, thinking he’d be more cooperative after she’d defeated his men. Now she turned to face him with an ominous deliberation. Her eyes locked onto him; now he had her undivided attention.

The villain’s grin immediately fell. His men clumping together had given him a clear shot, but now there was no one standing between him and this wrathful misthios. He all but stumbled in his haste to retreat, reaching inside his cloak again.

Kassandra marched after him, quickly closing the distance.

However, before she could reach the rapidly panicking villain, he found what he was looking for in his cloak and threw it to the ground. There was a loud crack and thick smoke burst forth like a tiny volcanic eruption. The acrid gas drove Kassandra back a step, coughing, and the Bacchus darted back, vanishing from sight.

“Mallakas!” Kassandra snarled again, swiping at the air but unable to clear the blooming fumes.

The smoke filled almost the entire room, drawing coughs from everyone, even Phoibe inside her basket. The fumes filtered through the gaps in the wicker and she covered her mouth, carefully trying to wave it away. Her vision was already obscured by her hiding and place and now, with her eyes burning, the basket filled with smoke, she couldn’t see anything at all.

However, Phoibe didn’t dare come out. The only thing that could beat Kassandra was if one of the men grabbed her and used her as a hostage to make the Eagle Bearer surrender. She stayed where she was, being as still and quiet as she could, waiting for her vision to clear.

Before the smoke had entirely vanished, the sounds of fighting rang out again. Phoibe could hear the yells of the men, cracks of impact, and thuds of bodies hitting the floor. Kassandra grunted then yelled as well. There was another clash of metal, more grunts, a crash as someone fell to the ground.

As the smoke cleared, the young thief saw shapes through the cloud, shadows clashing against each other. They began to sharpen into figures, four larger ones and a smaller one moving between them. Then the gleam of Kassandra’s armor shone through, the twirling of her skirts as she whirled and slashed.

The first thing she saw clearly was the Eagle Bearer slamming a kick into the body of Adrastos. The bald brute grunted and stumbled a step, but before Kassandra could follow up, she had to duck under the swing of another brute and slash with her sword to keep him back. She skipped away, trying to keep from being caught in between her larger opponents, but they followed her, pressing the attack.

Phoibe blinked and rubbed at her eyes.

Kassandra leapt and stabbed with her sword, but the man with the crooked nose parried it away and before she could recover, she was struck in the leg by the end of another man’s cudgel. She cried out in pain and slashed at him in retaliation, but then was thrown to the floor when another man shoved her with the haft of his weapon.

The Eagle Bearer clattered to the ground, but quickly rolled to her feet, red-faced and panting.

“There now,” the Bacchus called, watching by the door, “Press. Don’t let her catch her breath.”

The goons swarmed her again, one of them swinging at her ribs. She ducked away but fell right underneath a powerful downward swing from Cletus. With no other choice, she brought her weapon overhead in a block.

This time she crumpled under the blow, her knee slamming to the floor.

Grinning broadly, Cletus kicked her in the chest before she could stand. It bowled her over, throwing her legs in the air and giving the men a brief view of the white undergarment beneath her skirts.

“Ha!” the brute bellowed, “Got her!”

“Not so fast anymore!” Adrastos sneered, “Come on, Eagle Bearer!”

Phoibe clenched her fists. These guys were going to be really sorry once Kassandra got into her rhythm again.

The golden armored Spartan came up to her feet again, her weapons held lower than before. She was breathing harder, shining with sweat, blinking rapidly. To Phoibe it almost looked like she was sick, but that couldn’t be; her hero never got sick. She must have simply been out of breath from the smoke.

“Come… come on…” Kassandra snarled, “You… shit eating sons of… whores…”

She lunged at Adrastos, attacking with both spearhead and sword. She drove him back with fluid, constant motion, one cut flowing into the next, clashing into his guard too quickly for him to counterattack.

“Such spirit,” Bacchus grinned as he feasted his eyes, “Such a beautiful, sinuous body…”

Adrastos’ eyes were wide. He retreated, barely able to keep the whirling blades away from him. Before long he knew he would slip, that she’d trick him or he’d miss and the demi-goddess would filet him.

Fortunately for him, he didn’t have to keep it up for long. As Kassandra drove Adrastos back, she didn’t notice the crooked-nosed brute moving behind her. A swing of his heavy club slammed into her back.

“AAFF!” Kassandra was thrown forward, stumbling towards Adrastos, barely able to keep her balance.

It would have been better if she had fallen; instead, she tottered face first into a clothesline from Adrestos’ club. The blow struck her with a resounding crack, and her impact with the floor was almost as devastating, her head and shoulders striking first while her feet kicked up into the air.

Phoibe winced, almost feeling that blow herself. Kassandra would probably be very cross with her when this battle was over.

The Eagle Bearer grunted, eyes rolling in her head as she tried to sit up. She managed it but looked a bit confused, her movements uncertain and clumsy.

Exhilarated by his success, Adrastos laughed and pumped his club into the air.

“Did you see that?” he cried out, “I lambasted a goddess!”

“Oh, she would have killed you if not for me!” the crooked nosed brute sneered, “It was my blow that allowed yours!”

“I’m the only that’s struck her without help!” Cletus laughed, “It was me that began her downfall from the start!”

“I was the first to strike her at all!” said the fourth, a large man with a patch over one eye.

As the four closed in around her, Kassandra slowly stood up on wavering legs, then stumbled back before she caught her balance. She managed to stay standing, but her chest heaved raggedly and she wavered, holding her weapons in a lazy imitation of her previous skill and confidence.

“Now, let’s not argue, gentlemen,” the Bacchus chuckled, leaning in the door frame, “I’m enjoying all your performances. And we still have to complete the third act.”

Kassandra shook her head and attempted to glare at her opponents, but she couldn’t seem to focus her eyes on one. She lunged at the nearest brute, swinging her sword.

Her blow was not only poorly aimed, it was painfully slow. The blade would have only grazed Cletus’ shoulder, but he casually knocked it aside, then slammed his weapon down onto the top of the heroine’s head.

Kassandra’s knees banged to the floor and she stared at the brute’s feet, her lovely features glazed and bewildered. She wavered on her knees, seeming to consider falling forward, but before she could do so, Cletus grabbed her by the breast of her armor and yanked her back up to her feet with one hand.

Suddenly on her feet once again, Kassandra seemed even more confused. She blinked her eyes, as if trying to remember something very important, her lips pursed in a silly, confused O.

Before she could come to any kind of understanding, Cletus slammed the end of his club into her chin. It snapped the warrioress’s head back and when it rocked forward again, her eyes were crossed. She crumpled instantly, legs buckling, shoulders going slack, held up only by the big man’s grip.

Her weapons slipped from limp fingers and clattered to the floor.

“Yes!” Cletus flexed his bicep, “I beat the Eagle Bearer! I defeated the chosen of Zeus! Me!”

The others snickered, good naturedly complaining that they had done more to defeat her than he had.

While they enjoyed themselves, Phoibe scowled. None of these big bullies had beaten anyone. No matter how hopeless it looked, Kassandra always found a sudden reservoir of strength when it mattered most. Any second now she’d find her second wind and come back in spectacular fashion.

Even now, the Eagle Bearer groaned and pawed at the large fist holding her upright. Her arms looked heavy, but she was frowning and blinking her eyes, clearly trying to figure something out. Probably some clever plan, Phoibe thought.

The Bacchus chuckled again, his eyes glittering at the struggling warrioress.

“And like every good comedy, a happy ending.” He said, “Cletus? Would you care to perform the exode?”

The slaver’s men joined in his laughter, while Cletus’ grin grew broad and toothy. Ignoring Kassandra’s uncoordinated grasping, he pulled further upright, straightening her powerful legs. He tucked his club into a loop on his belt, easily holding her with one hand.

Phoibe’s eyes widened in anticipation. Any second now. Any second they were all going to see the real power of the Eagle Bearer.

Kassandra looked slightly past the brute holding her, still grasping at his forearm. One hand slipped off and dropped to her side and she grunted, like she was trying to speak but couldn’t find the words.

Cletus chuckled again then bent down to put a hand between her legs. He took a moment to get a good grip, clearly enjoying himself, then heaved and stood back up. He lifted the mighty heroine over his head without even a grunt of effort.

Now held over the brute’s head like the catch of the day, Kassandra went limp, arms and legs dangling. So confused by what was happening, she didn’t struggle, only shook her head and groaned faintly.

“Oh my!” the Bacchus clapped politely, “Such showmanship! Such stage presence!”

While the other brutes snickered and joined in the applause, Cletus strode in a small circle, displaying the slumped misthios to his audience. Teeth bared in a fierce grin, he pumped her in the air like a trophy.

Phoibe shook her head. They were toying with Kassandra and that would be their downfall. In their arrogance, they were giving her time to collect herself, marshal her strength. They wouldn’t be laughing for much longer.

As Cletus completed another circuit, Kassandra began to lazily struggle. There was no urgency in her struggles, and occasional kick or flap before the limb went limp again, as if forgetting what it had been doing. There was no concerted effort to get away, more like she was wobbling and trying to balance herself, instinctively waving around like someone does when they feel like they’re about to fall.

Cletus stopped, holding the squirming Spartan high overhead.

“All right, Eagle Bearer!” he bellowed, “Let’s see if you can fly!”

With that and a grunt of effort, he threw Kassandra into the ground, slamming her with all his might.

The Eagle Bearer struck with her head and shoulders, so hard that she bounced. For a split second she was airborne once again, limbs flailing like a rag doll’s. When she hit the ground again, she landed on her stomach, the impact giving her arms and legs a secondary bounce, kicking her feet up and flopping her arms.

In her basket, Phoibe flinched, feeling the impact in her feet.

Once the bounce of the fall subsided, Kassandra’s knees turned in, her head lolled to the side. Her body slumped where it lay and stayed still. She didn’t move.

Phoibe stared, blinking several times.

The Bacchus applauded slowly. He pushed off the door and strode towards the fallen warrior woman, each step purposeful.

“Well done, gentlemen,” he murmured, “Very, very well done.”

The brutes made way for their master, the wiry slaver continuing his lazy applause. He wore a small, coy smile, his gaze intent, each lazy clap in tandem with another step closer to the unmoving heroine.

When the Bacchus reached her, he clapped a final time and left his hands together, looking down on the inert, golden armored figure. His eyes roamed over her, down from her head to her strong shoulders, to the swell of her flanks beneath her skirts, to her legs, then back up again.

“Very well done indeed…” his grin grew.

Phoibe swallowed, then shook off any momentary doubts with a scowl. This might seem bad, but it really wasn’t. If it were anybody else, she would have been worried, but she reminded herself that if there was one thing that was true about Kassandra, it was that she was unbeatable.

The Bacchus slipped his foot beneath a shoulder and rolled the unbeatable warrior onto her back. Kassandra flopped over with a clatter of armor, one arm swinging wide while the other rested on her stomach. Her head rolled towards her shoulder, rocking a few times before coming to a stop. After that, her only movement was the rise and fall of her breasts.

“Oh yes,” the Bacchus rubbed his hands together, “Anything that comes into my house uninvited is mine. And you will make a delectable dish.”

He paused, his grin fading slightly as he seemed to consider something. Yet the eager glint never left his eyes.

“Alenos,” he said, “Close the door, if you please. Our evening plans have just changed.”

(to be continued)